And the Limit is Found
by Harper Penn
Summary: House is sick. Originally a request from pkfloyd94. Sucky summaries are the story of my life.
1. Chapter 1

**Okay, so here's a small little tale from the depths of my mysterious mind. I've been avoiding my other responsibilities like the plauge with this on my mind, so I'm glad it's done. This was originally a request from pkfloyd94. **

Gregory House was exhausted. He'd been up for almost four days now. Non-stop working. His latest patient was giving him a hell of a time.

Only Chase was here right now. He'd sent the other two home hours ago, Chase before them. His ducklings had to be well rested, even if he wasn't. Two days was their limit- apparently, four was his. He'd been sending them home in shifts. As far as the other two knew, House had been going home as well; Chase was the only one that was privy to the information that House hadn't left his office at all.

It didn't help that he probably had pneumonia. He'd been coughing violently now for the past six hours- something Chase wouldn't let him forget. He'd been sick when he'd come into work four days ago, but he'd ignored it as usual and had simply hoped it would go away. No such luck.

What had started of as what he thought was a chest cold had quickly gotten worse- and he wasn't exactly bothering to do anything for it. The last time he'd eaten had been… oh, what was it… yesterday? Sometime in the early morning hours of that day, Chase had force fed him a sandwich and a coffee. He'd eaten about half of it, but then had been distracted by something.

House was now being eyed by his longest running fellow. He glared back from across the room. To be fair, it would have been more effective if he hadn't been standing up simply to make sure he didn't pass out.

"House, you need to go get some help," he said, for the fiftieth time. "You're going to run yourself to death."

"Thank you so much," House snapped, tired of being lectured. "Now can we get back to the case?"

They discussed it for about five minutes before Chase stopped him. "We've gone over this a million times. You aren't helping him by killing yourself. For the love of God, go to Wilson before I bring him here!"

House glared at Chase from his position at the whiteboard. Truthfully, all he wanted to do was curl up in a ball on his sofa and fall asleep for the next four years- but he had work to do.

He made to snark back at Chase, but a cough cut him off mid snipe and forced him to fight for air. Chase looked both worried and pissed.

"_Go," _he demanded. "If nothing else, steal some of his food, because I haven't seen you eat in a while."

House relented, if only because Chase was seriously looking as if he was about to drug him and drag him off to the ER. He hung his head and closed his eyes.

"Fine," he croaked, voice hoarse from all the coughing. "Rerun the tests- full body scan, the works. I'm getting really tired of this patient. And after you do, go home and go to sleep. Your fellow fellows should be here within the hour- if not, feel free to give them a wakeup call."

Chase nodded and left, a smug-ish expression on his face. He knew when he'd won.

House rubbed the bridge of his nose. It was just lucky that Chase didn't know he'd fallen that morning. If he had, there would have been no end to the lecturing.

* * *

James Wilson sat in his office at two o'clock on a Wednesday afternoon, trying and failing to focus on his lunch.

He was worried. He hadn't seen House at all in the last few days, aside from passing glances. It wasn't like the man to avoid him totally, especially when it came to meal time.

He sighed and poked at his pasta with his fork, not noticing the door open and close quietly as House limped in.

Wilson looked up from his lunch to see House seated in front of him, chin resting on the heel of his hand. He was idly playing with one of Wilson's patient's gifts- a toy car he'd gotten from a ten year old. The boy had been cancer free on his last check up. House's eyes followed it as it drove around his imaginary road.

"Does someone like, page you when I begin eating?" Wilson asked, only half joking. He was taking a very late lunch, so he was surprised that House had shown up now instead of when he usually ate, to freeload.

House rolled his eyes, uncharacteristically silent, his shoulders slumped. Wilson eyed him suddenly, putting down his fork. House didn't look good. His face was pale, his hands had a slight tremor. The bags under his eyes could have been sold at a department store.

"What," he demanded shortly, looking the man up and down, "are you not telling me."

House shrugged, again, not using his words. Wilson blinked. "Did Cuddy take away your TV?"

House smirked, a low chuckle escaping him. It sounded raspy.

"Aha!" Wilson exclaimed, grinning at House's frown. "Your throat hurts, doesn't it?"

It suddenly made sense, why House had been avoiding him. He always did, when he was sick. It was some weird doctor complex the man had; he seemed to think if he ignored the illness, it would go away and not bother a diagnostician of his caliber.

House looked up at the ceiling, refusing to meet the oncologist's eyes.

"Can you talk at all?"

House finally said something. "Don't get to hopeful," he rasped. "I can still slice you to pieces with this tongue."

Wilson looked triumphant. "Yeah, but I can hardly hear you. All I need to do is hum, and everything you say will be lost to me."

House frowned at him, and flicked the car off the desk. The fiery explosion sound effects were slightly dampened by the loss of his voice.

Wilson stood up. "If you came in here sounding like that, you obviously need me to look you over," he stated, not waiting for an argument. "Come on, let's go to the clinic."

"Wilson, I don't need-"

Wilson began humming loudly, efficiently drowning out House's complaints. The man shot dagger eyes at him, but eventually followed him out. Wilson could hear his cane thumping against the tile.

* * *

**Whelp, there's the first bit. I've already got everything written up, so an update is coming soon. Tell me what you think of it. **


	2. Chapter 2

**And... next chapter. See, I told you it wouldn't be long. Am I right or am I right? Now updated to combat some typos that a helpful reviewer caught... damn you, auto correct...**

"So…" Wilson mused. "You think you picked up a cold from one of the clinic patients?"

House glared at him. "More like mono from kissing your mother," he shot back, obviously unhappy about the whole thing.

Wilson grimaced. "Now there's something I would pay to _not_ see."

House snorted. "I just have the flu," he coughed, covering his face with a Kleenex he pulled from no where. His other arm came over to brace his ribcage, like it was hurting him. Wilson stopped walking until House could breathe again.

"Why'd you come into work?"

"I don't like sick days."

Wilson frowned to himself. House hadn't taken a voluntarily sick day in years. Not since the infarction.

"Well, we'll see."

House frowned in turn. "No, _I_ already _know_. I just want you to give me some cough syrup so I can finish my case, and to get Chase off my back."

* * *

Wilson grew more and more worried as they got closer to the clinic, his earlier amusement gone and replaced by darker thoughts. House was coughing spectacularly, leaning much too much weight on his cane for Wilson's liking. He kept clutching at his ribs.

He took his opportunity to study House further when he leaned on the elevator wall, closing his eyes. The man had deep circles under his eyes, and he was sweating. And coughing all the more violently, starting a cycle of long bursts of coughing where he could get no air, then taking a deep breath to replenish that air, then starting a whole other round of hacking. He was using up tissues like no body's business.

"Jesus, it sounds like you swallowed staples," he remarked when the fit ended. They walked out of the elevator together, House, for once, not complaining loudly as Wilson held the door to the clinic open for him. That worried Wilson more than the cough.

Cuddy started towards them when she saw House, a rant about ignoring his clinic on the tip of her tongue. But Wilson shot a look over his friend's shoulder and shook his head, making puppy eyes at her. She blinked, sighed, and turned back around, sensing now wasn't the time.

Wilson sat House down on the bed, taking a tongue depressor out of the jar on the counter. "Say 'ah'," Wilson commanded.

House complied, and Wilson didn't like what he saw. "It's pretty inflamed, House, and you have a lot of congestion. How long have you been sick?"

House shrugged, seeming lethargic. "Saturday. Maybe."

Wilson pinched a bit of House's skin, grimacing. "You're dehydrated."

House shrugged. "Hurts to swallow," he conceded briefly, as if that was reason enough to avoid any kind of nutrients to the point of dehydration.

Wilson frowned at his friend. "And you were going to tell me all of this _when?"_

House snorted. "Now."

"Why now?"

House looked uncomfortable. Wilson's gaze softened as he realized what House was too proud to admit.

"It's hurting you, isn't it," Wilson stated, not really a question. House wouldn't meet his eyes, confirming his suspicion.

"I… uh… kind of fell… earlier," he forced out, sounding like he'd rather be anywhere else.

Wilson forced back panic. "Why didn't you call me?"

"I didn't need to. I just started coughing and got dizzy and I fell. No biggie."

"But you were afraid it would happen again?" Wilson guessed, and House shrugged a second time.

"Chase was up my ass about coming to see you- he knows you wouldn't have let me leave the room looking like this. So here I am."

This was the closest House would come to asking for help, and Wilson knew it. He forced any form of sympathy from his face as best he could and put his hands on his hips.

"Strip, then, because I need to check where you fell."

House frowned at him, crossing his arms protectively over his torso. "Wilson, I'm fine. Just give me what I asked for and let me go back to work."

Wilson wasn't going to budge on this one. "I'm not letting you leave until _you_ let _me_ give you a real check up," he threatened.

House glared and made to stand up. But, before he was even on his feet completely, he swayed to the side. He hardly caught himself with his left hand on the clinic bed. Wilson was already under him, helping him back.

"Sit down," he barked, frightened, in spite of himself, for House's sake. The man couldn't afford to get sick and lose more weight than he had already; Wilson could feel his spine through his shirt.

It scared him, how skinny House was. He'd always been thin, but directly after the infarction, he'd been dangerously emaciated. He simply hadn't eaten. Wilson had tried to make him, had pleaded with him, had nearly resorted to force feeding him, but House had had no apatite for the longest time. The combination of the drug's side effects and the pain left him unable to eat without feeling sick.

As time went on, Wilson gradually became House's food supplier. He knew, without a doubt, that House didn't eat unless he was eating with him. House was all alone in his apartment, with Stacy gone. Wilson had practically moved in without asking, and cared for his friend until he'd regained some semblance of normality.

However, House had never regained his previous pounds. As a cripple, one would think that he would gain weight, being unable to exercise with most common methods. But, no, the only weight House had now was muscle. No fat whatsoever.

House sat, coughing again, but not protesting. He didn't even look mildly annoyed, something that worried Wilson.

"Are you dizzy?" Wilson asked worriedly.

House shook his head, looking disgusted. "Just muscle weakness."

Wilson gently felt House's forehead with the back of his hand. "Well, you're certainly sick with something," Wilson commented. "You're burning up. Turn."

He stuck a thermometer in House's ear, and it beeped quickly. "102.2," he commented.

House grunted. "Flu."

"More like pneumonia," Wilson corrected. "You let this get to far, House."

"I don't have pneumonia," House argued, though his protest was weakened by the shake in his voice.

"House. You are a genius diagnostician, yet you can't, or won't, diagnose yourself? You let this progress to the point where a simple problem turned into something worse."

House looked too tired to argue, so he just sat there silently.

Wilson sighed. "Take off your shirt."

House complied, moving slowly. Wilson hissed at the bruise on his rib cage.

"You call that no biggie?" he accused.

House examined it with what looked vaguely like interest. "It wasn't that bad this morning."

Wilson bit back a nasty comment. "What did you hit it on?"

"The side of my desk."

Wilson winced at the image, and the force it would take to create a bruise like that. "You're lucky you didn't break something."

House wouldn't look at him.

"House. You _didn't."_

"Not sure, but I heard something crack."

Wilson swallowed, amazed yet again by his friend's ability to work through pain. "And you've been dealing with this since morning?"

House looked at him strangely. "Yes. I think that _one_ is _cracked_, not broken totally. All I need is a wrap."

"Bet it hurts like a bitch when you cough."

House looked irritated. "Yes, that's why I asked for _cough medicine._"

Wilson shook his head. "You can't seriously think I'm letting you off that easy," he admonished. "You're going home. And I'm coming with you."

"No!" House protested. "I have a case and I'm fine!"

"Then I'm admitting you."

"Wilson!" House protested, but before he could say much else more coughs wracked his tired body.

Wilson grew alarmed. "Whoa, whoa, relax, House. Breathe, breathe," he ordered him, catching him by the shoulders.

House did his best, and finally ended up wheezing pathetically. His head drooped in exhaustion, landing on Wilson's shoulder. He was too tired to maintain his personal bubble. Pain was draining. The coughs made his whole body tense- his leg and chest were killing him.

Wilson felt an overwhelming sense of affection for the ass. "God, when you get sick, you don't do it half ass, do you?"

House didn't reply.

Wilson's phone chirped at him, and he pulled it in front of his face without letting go of House.

The text was from Chase.

_H sick. Pretty sure it's pneumonia. He refused help. If he's not with you, find him. Do something?_

Wilson shook his head. "Your team just ratted you out, House. And _they _think it's pneumonia too."

House groaned. "_Chase…_" he said in an aggravated tone.

"He's worried about you," Wilson covered smoothly, not wanting Chase to have to face House's wrath.

House scoffed. Wilson gently lifted him off his shoulder, looking into his eyes. They were dull, their usual sparkling blue now almost gray.

"Honestly, how do you feel right now?"

House closed his eyes, sighing. He seemed on the edge of sleep. "Pretty shitty," he admitted quietly.

"You need I.V. fluids."

House groaned at this, slowly lying down on his good side on the clinic bed. He covered his head with his arm, trying to block out the light.

"But I don't _want _to…" he whined.

"You're dehydrated."

House just snorted.

"Come on, House, I'm not kidding."

"Can't you just… bring it here, or something?"

Wilson stared at the ceiling and tapped his foot. "No, I can't, because this is a clinic room and you can't sleep in here."

House scoffed. "Like that's _ever _stopped me before…"

Wilson grinned a bit, but it disappeared when House shivered. "Come on. I'll help."

House grunted and slowly pushed himself upwards, swaying more than a little bit. Since they'd come into the clinic room, his condition had rapidly deteriorated. He was exhausted. He hadn't slept in days, and the sickness wasn't helping matters.

Wilson's phone beeped again, and he looked at it before attempting to wrap House's chest.

It was Cuddy.

_How bad?_

He quickly typed out a reply before House could question him.

_Dehydrated, feverish, betting on pneumonia. He also has a cracked rib, _he sent back.

"You just texted Cuddy, didn't you," House asked him flatly.

Wilson shot him a confused look. "How'd you…?"

"Lucky guess. And I saw the look she gave you not five minutes ago."

Not a moment later, Cuddy strode into the room, the door slamming shut behind her. "House, I swear to God…"

She stared at him. He looked miserable, sitting there. He was sweating and shaking and he looked like he hadn't slept in a long time. Which, come to think of it, he probably hadn't. The case he'd been working on was a doosey- and from what she'd gathered from hospital gossip, House hadn't left since the patient had checked in.

The large bruise on his ribcage only worsened the effect.

She sighed. "Do you really think you cracked it?"

House rolled his eyes at Wilson. "You know, there's this cool thing called 'doctor patient confidentiality…'"

"Oh, shut up," Wilson commanded. House was the last one that needed to be lecturing on that.

Cuddy pulled Wilson's stethoscope off of his neck without asking and placed it on House's back. Wilson let her go to work while he gathered the supplies for the wrap.

"Breathe," she commanded shortly. House obeyed in spite of himself. He coughed lightly, trying to contain it.

"Sounds like rice crispies in there," she mused, leaning back. "You definitely have pneumonia."

House bit his cheek, not meeting her eyes. His thoughts seemed to be else where.

"I'm going to draw some blood and have it tested, but you know as well as I do what it is," she said. As she spoke she jabbed his arm with a needle and drew out a syringe full of blood. House winced, but didn't comment, as she taped a cotton ball over the small puncture.

She frowned at him. "If you'd gotten this looked at earlier it wouldn't be this bad. We're going to have to admit you now."

House protested weakly, but he looked like he was about to fall asleep. Finally pulled physically from the puzzle of his case, he was unable to find the motivation to stay awake. His brain was simply giving up, not so quietly demanding that he rest.

Wilson came back with the extra large ace bandage. "Lift your arms up," he said shortly.

House complied dully, locking his fingers and resting them on the back of his head. Wilson quickly wrapped up his chest to keep it from moving around too much. House winced at the pressure on the bruise, but he didn't protest. It would help not let the coughing jar the rib. When Wilson was done he slumped back down tiredly.

Cuddy pressed her lips together at his limp form. "Can you walk there?"

"Can't really _walk_ anywhere…" House attempted to joke, but it fell flat with the weakness of his voice. He closed his eyes and sighed, stifling a cough. "No, probably not."

He couldn't, either. The trip from Wilson's office to the clinic room had been the last straw for his leg, apparently. It wouldn't move now, and would be giving him hell later.

Wilson almost physically cringed at that. House almost never admitted any sort of weakness to anyone. The fact that he was doing it now meant that he was exhausted beyond even his sense of pride; nothing to sneeze at, as Wilson had come to learn.

"I'm going to grab you a wheelchair, then," he told him, and left.

House looked after him blankly, and Cuddy handed him his shirt. He took it with a sigh, attempting to shrug it back on with minimal discomfort.

Cuddy crossed her arms over her chest. "I don't get why you didn't deal with this sooner. You are the world's _top_ diagnostician and yet you won't diagnose _yourself _with pneumonia."

House rolled his eyes. "Doctors are the worst patients."

"That saying was meant for those that _over_react, not for those that ignore it totally. You're impossible."

House smirked at her. "Would you want me any other way?"

As far as his daily flirtations went, it was weak, but Cuddy smiled softly anyway. "No, then you'd be boring. But I do wish you'd take better care of yourself."

Wilson returned with the chair, and helped House into it as gently as he could. House slumped into it with a slight sigh, bringing his cane over the armrests to rest in his lap.

* * *

**Bit longer than the first one, but I couldn't break it up as easily. Review!**


	3. Chapter 3

**Boom, new chapter. Like magic. **

**(not really)**

**By the way, if you see typos, please tell me. My spell check likes to play games with me. Like, SAW games. **

Wilson pushed him through the clinic as quickly as possible, successfully avoiding most of the staff. They were in the elevator in no time, heading up to the room that he'd called ahead to set up.

Cuddy followed them after handing off the vial and file to a nurse, likely wanting to make sure that House did as he was told. She needn't have worried, though; he was almost unconscious just sitting in the chair.

When they got to the room, Wilson helped House into the bed. House basically stopped fighting right there, and fell backwards. He was asleep almost instantly.

Wilson sighed at his friend. "He pushes himself to the limit like this too often."

Cuddy just nodded. House didn't act like it, but he was very dedicated to his job. Too dedicated. He didn't know when to make himself stop, even if it was for his own sake. That was apparent in many things he'd done; the pneumonia was the least of it.

She paged a nurse for an IV kit and medication for House, and then sat in a chair for a needed break. She rested her chin on her fist and stared at House's sleeping form.

"Why didn't he just get the meds sooner?" She asked Wilson wearily. "You know he knew exactly what it was. He's probably going to need oxygen…"

At her words, Wilson attached a pulse ox monitor to House's still hand and frowned at the readings. "Yeah, he does. And I don't know. He's stubborn, doesn't like to admit when he's sick."

Cuddy rubbed her eyes with her thumb and pointer finger. "Moron."

"Yes," Wilson replied briefly. "Should we change him into a gown?"

Cuddy frowned. "We should, but he'd hate us for it. Scrubs would be better."

Wilson nodded and left, coming back with a pair of extra long blue scrubs for House. He roused his friend as gently as he could.

"House, come on. You need to put these on, okay?"

House grunted, turning his head into the pillow.

Wilson snorted. "Come on. Unless you want a nurse to put you in a gown…"

House opened his eyes at that, glaring at Wilson beadily. His eyes were fuzzy with exhaustion. "Fine, fine…" he sighed.

Wilson helped him pull off his shirt and slip on the scrub shirt. He eyed House as he emptied his jean's pockets, his vicodin, cell phone, and wallet landing on his bedside table.

House craned his head around to Cuddy, who was watching them with interest. House's movements had been slow and disjointed, something she rarely saw. It was intriguing.

"No girls allowed," he said flatly, staring her down. She rolled her eyes but got up without comment, realizing that it wouldn't be worth it to argue with him.

As she left, he pulled off his jeans as best he could without straining his ribs. Wilson helped him by pulling off his shoes and socks, then jerking on the pant legs.

House quickly pulled on the scrubs, fumbling with the waist in his exhaustion. Wilson hardly even glimpsed the scar before the pant legs were covering it up.

That was the moment a nurse came in with the IV drip. She was carrying saline and medication for his pneumonia, and House frowned at it unhappily.

"Don't even, House," Wilson cut him off shortly. "You need it, and you aren't getting out of it."

House slumped, knowing when he was beaten. He allowed the nurse to insert the IV with little more than a frown at the pain.

When the nurse had gone, Wilson sat down beside his friend. House had lain back on the pillows and closed his eyes, sighing lightly. He coughed a bit, and then was still.

He'd fallen asleep almost instantly.

Wilson smiled sadly and reached for his phone, intending to text House's team and let them know what had happened. However, there was no need; Chase walked in a moment later.

Wilson looked up at him, smiling tiredly. "Well, I got him down, anyway."

"Pneumonia?"

"Looking that way. Cuddy had some blood drawn, it's being tested now…"

Chase shook his head, looking at his boss with an exasperated expression. "He's such an idiot sometimes…"

Wilson rolled his eyes. That sentiment had oft been repeated in the last few hours.

"Can you hook up some oxygen?" he asked after a moment. "He needs it…"

Chase frowned. He hadn't known it was that bad- House did a good job of hiding his symptoms. "Yeah."

He hooked up a cannula, but stood there with the tube in his hand for a moment, at a loss. He looked at Wilson helplessly, unsure of how to proceed. It was if he was trying to give an alligator a dental exam.

Wilson stifled an eye roll. Even after years of working with the man, the ducklings were still afraid that House would bite. Actually, maybe it was _because _of the years spent with him…

Wilson took the tube from Chase and placed it gently over House's head, placing it so the oxygen flowed into his nose. It would help with the coughing, if nothing else.

He watched House's oxygen stats climb slowly. Chase disappeared after a moment. Wilson didn't even notice.

* * *

The next thing he new, he was waking up. He had no idea what time it was, or even where he was. He shook himself, letting his eyes adjust to his surroundings.

Oh. Right. House's hospital room. How long had he been sleeping? He checked his watch, yawning.

Oh, crap. It was nearly four in the morning. He'd stayed there all night! No wonder his neck hurt; he'd fallen asleep in the chair at a very odd angle.

House was still dead to the world, sprawled out on the bed. His growling snore was just loud enough to be heard over the beeps of the machines and the whoosh of the oxygen. Wilson smiled at him softly- House looked so at peace when he was sleeping.

Wilson shook his head. He really needed to get back to his office. Hopefully Cuddy had noticed his absence and had done something about the two patients he'd had appointments with. Both were routine follow ups, and good news, so he wasn't too worried about it.

He gave House one last glance, wondering what he could leave to let House know he hadn't been alone for too long when he woke up. He finally decided on a quick note on one of his prescription pads, which he left on top of House's wallet and phone.

He left the room and walked quietly to his office. He loved the hospital at times like this- the early hours of the morning. There was none of the usual hustle and bustle, at least not on this floor. It was all quiet, only the soft murmurings of the machines and breathing to disturb the peace.

He unlocked his door and hung up his lab coat before taking a seat, turning on a low lamp and his radio to wake him up a bit more. There was probably coffee in the lounge- even oncologists sometimes kept strange hours- but he didn't really want to get up again.

* * *

Wilson was halfway through his third file when Forman knocked and stuck his head in the door.

"Seen House?" he questioned, an irritated tinge to his voice. "I can't find him anywhere."

Wilson glanced up, surprised. "Chase didn't tell you?"

"No. He was on his way out when I came in. We've been working in shifts…"

Wilson frowned. So, the ducklings had been getting plenty of rest, even as House nearly drove himself over the edge. He wondered why no one had said anything before Chase.

"He's in room 384," Wilson told him, watching his reaction.

Foreman merely looked puzzled. "Doing what?"

"Sleeping."

At this, Foreman gritted his teeth. Wilson cut him off before he had a chance to say a word. "Foreman, you do realize House hasn't gone home, don't you?" he asked, a warning note in his voice. "He's been here four days."

Foreman blinked. "I thought he was going home when he sent us home, and leaving Chase to keep track of things. He wasn't?"

Wilson stood up, intending to talk to the younger doctor on the way to House's room. "No. He hasn't even slept in that time. You realize he has pneumonia?"

Foreman looked startled. "I knew he was sick…"

Wilson couldn't help but let a small flash of annoyance flick over his features. "I checked him in myself. He wouldn't let me at first, but as soon as he hit the bed he was out cold."

"How'd you get him to admit it in the first place?"

Wilson bit his cheek to keep from saying something very work inappropriate. "He didn't _have _to admit it, Foreman. I could see it the moment he walked into my office."

"I just meant how did you get him to let you check him out?"

Wilson sighed as he pressed the elevator button. He wasn't about to tell Foreman about House falling, so he went with the simpler version. "Cuddy was there, holding hot water over his head. Chase ratted him out, too."

They were outside of House's room now. Foreman blinked.

* * *

House wasn't asleep anymore. He was slowly inching upwards- his hair was a mess, his scrubs were wrinkled. He still looked like crap. With a slightly annoyed look he unhooked the oxygen from his nose and turned off the machine without a glance.

His leg had woken him up, as it often did. Only now, it'd taken a bit longer, with how tired he was. No doubt it was going to give him hell as soon as he got up. Normally, he was up every three hours or so, even just to get water or piss. The movement kept his leg from seizing. But now, he'd slept for far too long without moving an inch.

He scrubbed at his face and reached over to the side table, snagging the note. His eyes flicked through it quickly. He gave it a half smile- one that reached his eyes, for once- and set it down gently.

As he was slowly turning to get his legs out of the bed, Foreman and Wilson walked in.

"Wilson, love letters are only necessary when you don't come back two minutes later," House said mildly, his voice still scratchy and raw from all the coughing.

"I was gone for longer than that!" Wilson protested, noting the sound with concern. He poured a glass of water and handed it to House.

House smirked at him, taking the glass and setting it aside. Before he even attempted to get up, he popped two vicodin. For once, Wilson didn't frown at him, which he appreciated. These pills were necessary- which Wilson knew good and well from the infarction period. His leg didn't take kindly to being abused for four days in a row, then slept on solidly for more than twelve hours. His restlessness at night had a reason. If he left the leg immobile for too long, it became stiff and unstable.

Unfortunately, he really, _really _had to pee. That was the result of the I.V. fluids, changed several times by a nurse while he slept. He couldn't take an hour to get out of bed like he wanted too.

It was then that he took note of Foreman. "Anything new?" he asked shortly. He was still tired. The sooner they fixed the patient, the sooner he could go home.

Foreman blinked several times before he could make himself speak. "Uhh…"

House frowned at his response. He rapidly waved his hand, exposing his wrapped chest with his movements. Foreman couldn't help but stare. "Come on, come on!"

Foreman shook himself. "Chase said he might have spotted something on the cranial scan."

House looked annoyed, even as he pulled out his IV. "And no one woke me up because...?"

Foreman couldn't move on until his curiosity was satisfied. "What did you do to your ribs?"

House scowled at him. "I'm going to pretend that you didn't ask that question. Get out. I'll be there soon."

Foreman knew when he wasn't welcome. He turned around and exited without another word.

Wilson sighed, offering House his cane. "You don't have to be so short with him."

"Yes I do. If I start answering his questions now, he'll never leave me alone."

Wilson rolled his eyes. "You shouldn't be checking out yet. You're still tired."

House sighed exasperatedly, coughing afterwards. "Wilson, I swear, I'll go home and sleep for a day as soon as I finish this case. Get off my back."

Wilson eyed him. "Two days. And I'm going to be making sure."

"Fine, fine, whatever."

House bit the side of his cheek, thinking. "There's a backpack in my office behind the desk that's got some extra clothes in it."

Wilson waited for more, but House just stared at him. He exhaled. "Right. I'll be right back."

* * *

**Felt that this was a good point to end the chapter. Sorry, folks. Review?**


	4. Chapter 4

**NEW CHAPTA! WHAT WHAT?! I SAID-A NEW CHAPTA!**

House waited till he was around the corner before he attempted to stand up. It hurt like a bitch to extend the leg all the way, and he grimaced in pain when his foot touched the ground. This was _not _going to be a fun trip to his office, but he'd be damned if he was going to take a wheelchair again. He'd only done it the first time because he'd been positive he would have collapsed before making it to the room.

Now, though, there was a slim chance that he'd make it without landing on his ass. And slim was good enough for him.

He slowly -painfully- stood up, gritting his teeth. His leg felt like it was on fire. It was weak, as well, not supporting as much weight as it usually did (as little as that was).

Of course, that was when Cuddy strode in, looking like she was about to talk business. She'd passed Wilson on her way there and knew House was awake, and was intent on getting him back to sleep. When she saw House standing there awkwardly, she froze like a deer in headlights.

House burned with embarrassment, but it didn't show on his features. He only leaned on his cane with a slightly strained expression.

Cuddy wasn't sure what to say. She was looking at House in one of his most vulnerable moments; he had no shoes on, he was in scrubs, he'd just woken up. His hands were shaking and his face was drawn. And from what she could gather from his posture, his leg was aching mightily.

"Uh…"

"Did you need something?" he snapped, immediately defensive. He wasn't about to sit back down on the bed - not with all the effort he'd put into getting up the first time - and he couldn't step forward without risking collapse. House was literally trapped in between a rock and a hard place. He lifted his right leg to where he was hardly brushing the ground, trying to keep the pain off of his face.

Cuddy blinked, coming back to herself. "No. I was just seeing if you were awake. Foreman mentioned that he couldn't find you, so…"

"He's already been in here," House said shortly, not in the mood for a long conversation. He wanted to get to the bathroom _before _Wilson got back, and Cuddy was messing with his plans. "So if that's all…"

Cuddy could take a hint. "Okay. I'll…"

She shook her head and cleared her throat. "Wait. No," she said strongly. "You shouldn't be out of bed yet, House, and you know it. You aren't fit to be gallivanting around the hospital like this."

House gritted his teeth. "Just leave me the hell alone, Cuddy."

Cuddy's face was determined. "No. I'm serious about this, House. Do _not _leave this room."

House narrowed his eyes at her and stepped forward, eyes blazing. "Get out of the way."

"No."

"Get _out. _Of the _way."_

"No, House!" she yelled, stepping forward until she was directly in his face. "Just get back in the bed!"

House still towered over her, as sick and in pain as he was. His eyes were menacing, and it took all of Cuddy's power to stand firm.

At that moment, Wilson walked in. He stopped mid stride at the scene before him.

"Dr. Wilson," Cuddy said hotly. "Get Dr. House back in bed."

Wilson stammered awkwardly. "Uh… I don't- I mean-"

"Give me my clothes, Wilson," House demanded, not taking his eyes off of Cuddy.

Wilson stepped back, dropping the bag and raising his hands in the air. "I think I'm just going to leave you two to this one."

House didn't even look at him as he fled like the room was on fire. He leaned forward and towered over Cuddy, stubbornness in his eyes.

"Get in the bed."

"No." he combated, not even bothering to make a dirty joke. Cuddy figured that was a good indication of his seriousness about the whole situation.

Cuddy gritted her teeth. "House, you aren't okay. You're scarily underweight, you know that? If I let you go right now something serious could happen- not to mention the fact that you don't need to be practicing when you _have a fever._"

House snapped. "I WANT TO DO MY JOB!" he roared, slamming his cane on the ground and breathing heavily. "Do you not _get it?!_ I can't _sleep! _I can't _relax! _I can't just go home and ignore this, this God damn puzzle! Not until I get this done! Just let me finish and I'll do whatever the hell you want me to after that!"

Cuddy watched him, eyes wide and mouth slightly open, as he coughed violently in the crook of his arm. She lunged forwards as he swayed, catching him with an oomph.

"Get off…" he croaked, trying to push her away. "Just… go…"

She firmly shouldered her way under him and sat him back down on the bed. "Stay," she commanded, pressing on his shoulders like she could simply smash him into compliance.

He was tense, eyes downcast. "I have to piss."

Cuddy blinked. "Oh. I…"

House glared at her from beneath lowered lids. "Move."

She did move, mostly because she was just now becoming highly embarrassed about what had just transpired.

He glared at her, wishing that his limbs weren't shaking so badly, and pushed himself upwards again.

Cuddy, out of respect for House, averted her eyes. She sat back in one of the visitor's chairs and fiddled with her phone. Every so often, she flicked her eyes up to him to check on his progress.

Ever so slowly, he pressed more weight onto his leg and leaned less of it on the cane. He gasped when his full weight pressed down on it, biting his lip to keep a curse from escaping. The days of mistreating the offending limb were taking their toll.

He stepped forward and had to press his lips together to keep from shouting. It felt like he was pressing the blade of a knife into his leg. He closed his eyes and stood still for a long moment, wishing he wasn't still so weak. He was far from healthy at this point- the pneumonia still had a strong grip on him.

He opened his eyes again, blue irises blazing, and took another few steps. They were painful and slow, but he was moving.

He got to the bathroom and slammed the door as hard as he was able- not nearly hard enough- to show his distaste with Cuddy, who was giving him puppy eyes from her chair.

House leaned on the sink while he was relieving himself. He sighed in content as his full bladder emptied.

Cuddy's voice penetrated the door. "You okay?" she asked hesitantly.

"Yep."

"You really shouldn't be walking yet, you know."

"Yep," he repeated. Cuddy would lecture a stop sign for being red, and probably expect it to turn purple when she was through.

He could hear his boss sigh through the door as he flushed and washed his hands.

He opened the door to a worried looking Cuddy. House stood in the doorway awkwardly, leaning on the frame.

"Please just lie back down," Cuddy pleaded softly. "I'll let Foreman bring the scans in here, but I don't want you out and about. You know as well as I do that you need to spend a few days in here."

House snorted in disgust, but limped back to the bed anyway. He was shaky and weak. He probably couldn't have made it to his office if he'd tried.

Cuddy let loose a relieved sigh as he scooted backwards and crossed his arms, looking at her petulantly. "Happy?"

She nodded. "Put the cannula back on."

House looked disgusted. "Ugh. It makes me look like an old man."

"Fitting, then," she teased.

He rolled his eyes, but complied, knowing it was in his best interests to keep Cuddy happy if he wanted to solve his puzzle. He wasn't giving in, exactly… he was just… manipulating… passively.

She turned on the oxygen and House couldn't help but enjoy the feeling of clean air in his lungs. He wouldn't let her see that, though, so he simply glared at the ceiling.

Cuddy bit her lip and eyed the call button. "You really need to eat something."

"Congratulations, it only took you forty something years to figure out that people need to eat. Doctor extraordinaire."

Cuddy ignored him, lightly pressing the call button.

A nurse appeared a moment later, looking ready for a nuclear explosion. Word had gotten out that this was House's room, and she'd quickly been persuaded by the other nurses on staff to take the room.

When she saw Cuddy sitting there, however, she straightened. "Oh, Dr. Cuddy! Did you need something?"

Cuddy nodded shortly. "Can you bring up a breakfast tray?" she asked, politely but to the point. "Dr. House needs to eat while he's awake."

House glared at the nurse silently, blue eyes cold as ice.

The nurse backed up a step. "O-of c-course," she stammered, her gaze locked with House's. She scurried out quickly, like a rabbit from a hawk.

"I'm not hungry," House said stiffly.

"I don't care."

"My stomach hurts."

"Big whoop."

"I won't eat it."

"Yes you will," Cuddy replied firmly. "You can't survive on IV fluids alone, and you know it. Chase told me you haven't been eating."

"Damn wombat."

"He was just worried about you."

House scoffed, looking away. The nurse returned with the tray.

"Anything else?"

Cuddy shook her head, smiling. "Thank you, Nurse…"

"Smith," she supplied.

"Nurse Smith. Thank you very much."

"No problem, Dr. Cuddy," she replied, voice sickly sweet. She wanted to make a good impression on her boss, after all.

When she'd gone, House scoffed in distaste. "Just a bunch of brown-nosers."

"A little brown nosing never hurt. You ought to try it sometime."

House gave her a look that clearly screamed, "Are you freaking kidding me?"

He pushed the food around on his tray with his fork, frowning at it. "Give me my phone. I need to let Foreman know I'm no longer allowed to be in my own office."

He hissed the last word, clearly still upset with her. She sighed and handed him his cell.

He pressed the speed dial then the speaker button, tossing it down on the bed while he played with his eggs.

"What, House?" Foreman answered, wondering why his boss would be calling him now.

"The dragon has trapped me in her lair. I repeat, the dragon has trapped me in her lair."

Foreman was not amused. "House, just get up here. The sooner we solve this the sooner we can all go home."

Cuddy cut in then.

"No, _House _is _not _going anywhere, certainly not home. He's still a patient, and I'm not discharging him till he's healthy."

Foreman was silent for a good long moment. He hadn't known Cuddy was listening to the conversation.

"Should I bring the scans down there then?" he asked slowly, hoping Cuddy wouldn't bite his head off.

"Fine," House snapped before Cuddy could get a word in, humor gone. He hated being ordered around by Cuddy. That she was his boss didn't matter. His team was _his team, _and he didn't like her swooping in and imposing her order into his carefully constructed system.

Foreman hung up without another word.

House glared at Cuddy for a long moment. She eventually stood, brushing off her skirt.

"You need your meds. The blood work came back positive, in case you still have doubts. Bacterial. General antibiotics should help clear it up."

House cocked his jaw. "I am a doctor, you know. And a damn good one at that."

"Funny, from the last few hours, I wouldn't have guessed. Most _sane_ people, let alone sane _doctors_, know to treat themselves if they're sick."

"Well, we already know I'm not the sanest around here, don't we," he replied caustically.

Cuddy started to retort harshly, but she paused, looking at his face. He looked… ashamed. Upset. As sick and tired as he was, he was showing more emotion than normal. It was disconcerting to see him looking vulnerable.

"You aren't insane, House," she replied softly, her tone much more gentle than it'd been before.

House slowly met her eyes, his filled with hurt. "Okay."

Cuddy felt now was a good time to leave him alone. "I'm going to send Wilson in here with the meds, okay? Don't need you making another nurse quit."

That didn't even evoke a smile, which worried her. "I'll see you later."

"Fine," he said flatly, staring out the window at the weak morning sunlight. He still hadn't touched the tray.

**Updates will come swiftly. Like... eagles. Or burnt toast. Or the end of a three day weekend. **


	5. Chapter 5

**Guys, you rock. This was just a simple story I had going in the back of my mind, but yall reviewed it like it was a multi-post series. Thanks for all the feedback. This is the second to last chapter. **

Wilson was there less than thirty minutes later, IV meds, and House's glasses, in hand. He had a feeling that House would be needing them in the next couple of days. "So Cuddy's keeping you here?" he asked hopefully. He was glad that Cuddy was making him stay – he really needed to be here, not home. He wouldn't take care of himself at home.

House looked… vacant. He'd yanked off the oxygen feed as soon as Cuddy was out of the room, mostly in spite, but now he had no emotion to show. "Yeah."

"Is she still letting you work on the case?"

House let his gaze slowly wander around the room. "The team has to come here."

Wilson sat down after hooking up the medications, feeling more than a little bit sorry for his friend. "You know you need to be here," he pointed out as gently as possible.

House frowned. "I'm not some frail old man that's gonna keel over from pneumonia, Wilson."

Wilson decided not to point out that he _had _nearly keeled over. "I know that. But you've lost a lot of weight and that can cause complications. Not to mention the coughing is aggravating your ribs. It'll probably just be today and tomorrow. Then I'll take you home and feed you fattening food for the weekend, and you'll be good to go next week."

House still looked annoyed, but less so. He sighed. "I suppose."

They were silent for a long moment. House's words shattered the silence like a bullet in a pane of glass.

"I hate this," he bit out angrily. "I hate it."

"What?"

"Being here. Stuck in a hospital bed. Can't fucking stand it."

"House, it's not that big of a deal."

House's eyes were glowing. "It is to me. I don't want to stay here – I want to go home. I don't want to be poked and prodded every ten minutes by stupid nurses, I don't want to get ogled at, I don't want to eat the hospital food. I _hate _this."

Wilson thought he detected a current of fear underneath House's cutting words. "House… this is nothing like the infarction."

House glared at him. "I know that, Wilson. I'm not afraid Cuddy's going to come at me and chop my leg off with a butcher knife," he spat, though by the look in his eyes, he might have been.

"I'm just…"

He sighed. "I just hate being the patient. And I can't freaking relax, not with this damn puzzle."

Wilson nodded. He thought it had a lot to do with the infarction period, and little to do with the hospital food and the case, but he didn't mention that. "You know I'll stick around here until you're ready to go home," he assured him quietly. He hadn't been around when the infarction hit, off at a medical conference. This time… this time he'd stick around to keep House company, to keep his mind off of things.

House's eyes held a silent gratitude that he'd never say out loud to Wilson. "Wilson, you pansy," he teased, but he didn't mean it in the slightest.

* * *

Foremen shook his head as he rode the elevator down to House's room. From the looks of things, Cuddy had finally won a battle against House. Foreman couldn't help but wish it hadn't been this one – he was ready to take a few days off, to sleep and regroup. With House stuck in a room, it could take a lot longer.

He eyed the scans one last time before heading towards House's room, hoping that what he thought he was seeing was really there. It would certainly clear up the medical mystery that they'd been fighting non stop.

"Let's hope I'm right…" Foremen mumbled to himself as he pushed open the door to House room.

Wilson looked up at him as he entered, but House was, once again, dead to the world. He hadn't slept nearly enough last night, apparently.

Wilson glanced at the scan envelope in Foreman's hand. "Those the tests he was waiting for?"

Foreman nodded, handing them over. "How long has he been out?"

"Less than ten minutes. But he needs it, Foreman."

The younger doctor held up his hands. "I know, I know. I never said he didn't."

"Maybe _you _didn't, but your face sure did. House pushed himself too far," Wilson said hotly, yet quietly, reluctant to wake up his friend. "And you let him. You're a doctor, Foreman, not to mention the one that I thought was most responsible on his team. You should have come to one of us a lot sooner than this."

If Foreman hadn't been dark skinned, he would have blushed. "He hid most of it from us. I didn't know he wasn't sleeping, either. He implied that it was just Chase up here when he sent Taub and I home."

Wilson shook his head. "Well, it wasn't. And now he's going to be stuck here for a few days while the IV fluids and oxygen do their work."

Even as he spoke, he was reattaching the canula to House's nose. "I'm not saying you need to baby him, Foreman," he elaborated, concentrating on his work, "because God knows he would eat you for lunch. All I'm asking is that you watch his health as best you can. He won't do it, so someone has to."

Foreman nodded slowly. He wasn't going to pretend that he adored his boss, but he did have a grudging respect for the man. In all honesty, a healthy House was a House that was easier to deal with. That was motivation enough for him to keep an eye on the curmudgeon doctor.

"Are those going to end this damn case?" Wilson asked finally, after he'd sat down. "Because I need this to be over, and so does he."

Foreman drew them out of the envelope. "I think so. I'll have to wake him up, though," he warned, a hesitant expression on his face.

Wilson nearly laughed. "Fine. The sooner this is over with, the sooner he can _really _rest. I swear, when his mind is going full throttle like it is now, he doesn't even really sleep. He wakes up just as tired as he was when he went to bed."

Foreman nodded, leaning over and shaking his boss's shoulder. "House. Wake up."

House shifted, turning away from Foreman's intrusion. "Go 'way," he mumbled, squeezing his eyes together.

"House, I have the scans."

House's eyes popped open like a kid's on Christmas morning. "Finally," he said, carefully sitting up and snatching the films out of Foreman's hand. He squinted at them in the light, wishing he had his glasses.

Wilson, magically, handed them to him. House slipped them on, sending the oncologist a quick look of gratitude that would have been missed in most circumstances. He eyed the scans.

A look of triumph crossed his face. "What did I tell you?!" he exclaimed, eyes dancing. "Perfect example, right there. I knew it."

Foreman nodded, relief washing over him. It was finally over. As soon as he set up told Taub the diagnosis and had him set up the treatment, they could all go home.

"I'll go set up treatement," he said, not quite keeping the smile from his face at the look on House's. He looked like a puffed up crow, strutting around with his medical victory.

As soon as Foreman was gone, House fell back onto the bed with a satisfied sigh. "Finally."

"Finally," Wilson agreed, but House was already fast asleep. A real sleep, this time.

**Sorry for the short chapter. Next one is a wrap up. **


	6. Chapter 6

**I'm sorry for the delay. Everything has been going wrong lately. **

It was almost a day later when he woke up again. He opened his eyes to see Cuddy staring at him, smiling slightly.

"Good to see you back in the world of the living," she half joked. "We were wondering if Wilson was going to have to dump a bucket of cold water on you."

House mutely sat up, rubbing his eyes and clearing his throat. He blinked, then yawned.

"I'm starving," he said finally, and it was true. His stomach was growling ravenously.

Cuddy magically produced a lunch tray, which he accepted eagerly. She let him get through about half of it before speaking up.

"How's the cough?"

House paused. "Better. Head doesn't hurt either."

His leg was a different story, but he wouldn't be saying anything about that. With all the laying around he'd been doing, it was going to bitch and moan as soon as he attempted to move. He figured he'd delay that moment as long as he could.

"Well, you're free to go, as soon as you want," Cuddy offered, still slightly stung by his rant yesterday. "Wilson'll take you home."

Not that he was over his pneumonia. However, Cuddy knew when she'd lost. The best she could do, now that he was awake, was send Wilson home with him, and she was. When she'd ordered him to stay here, it'd been because she was afraid he'd collapse and not be able to get back up. Now, at least, he was slightly more rested.

House nodded, stretching as he finished his meal.

* * *

Wilson was along not long after, House's clothes in hand. "Come on and get dressed. Cuddy's ordered me to take you home before you can wreak havoc on the nursing staff."

House grinned, and started to strip without preamble. Wilson rolled his eyes and closed the blinds for him before he could blind the nursing staff.

House managed the shirts fine, but when he got to his jeans, he looked slightly lost. Moving his legs too much would result in an amount of pain he wasn't comfortable dealing with so soon after waking up.

Wilson watched silently as he slowly sat down on the bed and did his best, pulling the scrubs down in one swift motion. Ignoring his underwear, he tossed the scrubs away with his good leg and bent over to pull up his jeans.

House soon ran into a problem. He couldn't move too far down without irking his rib, and couldn't move his leg too far up without hurting it. He stared at the jeans with a slightly disgusted look on his face.

Wilson went over silently, keeping his face blank. He pulled up House's jeans and slipped on the man's socks and shoes, much like he'd done so many times after the infarction. Both men fell into the familiar pattern, even so far after the fact.

House's face was a mixture of frustration, embarrassment, and despair. Wilson felt for him.

"Don't tie the right," House said bitterly. "It'll swell as soon as I start moving."

Wilson complied, tucking the laces into the shoe without tying them together. He stood back up and stretched his back, choosing not to make eye-contact with his friend while his pride was so battered.

The older doctor leaned back, closing his eyes. After a moment, Wilson shook him.

"House. Come on. Time to go home."

House slowly opened his eyes. They were filled with thought.

"Move," he said finally, sitting up.

With a fluid motion, he swung his legs over the side of the bed. A flicker of a grimace passed over his features, and he rubbed the offending limb angrily.

"Just can't give me a damn break, can you…" he muttered, slowly standing up with most of his weight on his left leg and cane.

The first step did not go well. His leg simply collapsed, and he caught himself on Wilson (who had been hovering anxiously by) and his cane.

He huffed, grimacing. "Back to the bed, I think."

Wilson complied, helping him back up a step. He collapsed on the bed, looking disgusted.

House studied the ceiling. "I need… " he forced out, closing his eyes. He couldn't quite make himself finish the sentence.

Wilson was not about to argue. He helped House to his feet without a second thought, and then slowly walked him out of the hospital room. As soon as they were out the doors, however, House pulled away, placing his hand on the wall. Slowly, painfully slowly, he made his way to the elevator.

Wilson watched him worriedly as he jumped in next to him, waiting until the doors closed to speak. "House, if you want a wheelchair-"

"I don't," he snapped shortly. His face was drawn and pale, his posture hunched over his cane. He looked like he could throw up at any moment.

Wilson knew it was normal for House to be like this after a few days in bed. He'd been around during the post infarction period, when his friend had spent long increments of time curled up around his screaming limb, in too much pain to move. And after, he'd have to watch from a safe distance as House had made his way around his apartment, his leg uncooperative and his mind too stubborn to accept the fact that he needed a hand.

All of that didn't change the fact that he hated seeing him that way, though.

Wilson ran out to his car and pulled it up to House, who piled in. He gingerly lifted his leg into the seat and leaned back, closing his eyes again.

Wilson quirked his mouth at him. "I can't carry you inside, House. Stay awake till we get there.

House ignored him, shielding his face with his hand to block out the weak morning sunshine that was just now peaking over the horizon.

They got to his apartment, and Wilson reached out to help him up the stairs. House smacked him away, irritated.

"I can get up my own steps," he insisted, gritting his teeth.

Wilson held up his hands and stepped back, wincing in sympathy as House climbed laboriously up the few steps to his front door.

When he was halfway there, he simply stopped. Wilson bit his cheek and slowly pressed up against him, letting House lean on him without saying anything, hoping that the stubborn man would accept help.

"Feel familiar?" the older doctor asked quietly, the pain so evident in his voice that Wilson cringed. Apparently, Wilson wasn't the only one that was remembering the past.

He supported House's right side the rest of the way to the apartment without answering, until House had fallen in bed and kicked off his shoes and jeans. He simply laid on his back and stared at the ceiling, eyes bloodshot and hands shaking slightly.

"Get to sleep," Wilson said quietly. "I'm going to grab some stuff from my place. When you wake up, I'm feeding you, and you can take the meds Cuddy prescribed."

House said nothing, choosing to ignore him.

Wilson stared at him for a moment, then turned around and headed for the door. House's hoarse voice stopped him in his tracks.

"Thanks, Wilson," he croaked quietly, voice cracking. "Sorry you had to cart my crippled ass around."

Wilson closed his eyes for a moment. If House was calling himself crippled, he was pretty low. "You know I live for it, House. I'll see you in the morning."

House sighed, but Wilson heard contentment in there somewhere. He relaxed a fraction, glad he'd apparently said the right thing.

**Guess what. I lied. Next chapter is the last one. Whoops. **


	7. Chapter 7

**Little closing chapter to this little fic. Thanks for reading, everyone. **

House opened his eyes what seemed like an eternity later, blinking at the light. Wilson was standing over him, looking worried.

"You've been sleeping for nearly 20 hours, House. You need to eat something, drink something. Come on."

House groaned. 20 hours? His leg was gonna give him hell.

He slowly sat up, blinking in surprise when his leg didn't even twinge in protest.

"What the…"

He looked down in dismay, startled to see his jeans pulled off. He was in his boxers and tee shirt only. His hand found a small white patch on his thigh.

"Fentanyl?" he questioned, legitimately confused. "Why…"

"You…" Wilson hesitated, rubbing his neck. "You were pretty restless. I figured it was your leg."

House blinked. He didn't remember much, just hazy recollections of pain now that he thought about it. Surprised, he muttered "Thanks," before he could think about it too much.

Wilson nodded, handing him his cane and a pair of pj pants. "Come on. Dinner is cooking.

House shook his head. Dinner? Of the next day? He had been sleeping a while.

Slowly, he made his way to the table, the drugs clouding his mind just enough to screw with his balance. He slumped down at the table, putting his head down on his crossed arms. Wilson set a steaming cup of coffee in front of him, and House drank it gratefully.

Before long, he and Wilson were chowing down on some of Wilson's cooking. House, for the first time in days, felt good.

"Cuddy doesn't want to see your face for a few days. That's a direct quote. Mine either, for that matter. So we're stuck here," Wilson said tentatively, waiting on House's reaction.

To his surprise, House grinned. "Good. We need to catch up on my porn collection."

Wilson smiled in return, feeling the depression of the last few days slip away with House's comment. It seemed like things were returning to normal.

He spoke up, though, before House could move on too far.

"That can't happen again, House," he said quietly. "You scarred all of us. We were… afraid for you."

House scoffed, but inwardly he seemed to take Wilson's words into account. "Trust me, I don't plan on doing anything like that again any time soon."

Silence rang in the room, and a moment later, House eased Wilson's worry.

"And… maybe next time," he said slowly, chewing, "I'll tell you before it gets that far."

**Again, thanks for reading. This fic has gotten me through some hard times, and your reviews can only help me when I'm feeling like the world is spitting on me. You don't know how much it helps. **


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